(no subject)
Some of people's posts lately about old children's books (nothing in particular, just here and there) have reminded me about Seven Little Australians, a book I loved a lot as a kid and have actually mentioned here before. According to imdb, it hasn't been filmed since the 1970s, which is kind of a curse and a blessing - a curse because it doesn't get much attention, and a blessing because so many film adaptations of children's classics are painfully bad.
Anyway, the original is available at Project Gutenberg and should be available at any good library as well.
A couple of years ago, I found that I could start crying just by opening the book at a certain death scene. Now, I found something else - I can start crying just by thinking about that death scene, if I'm in a melancholy mood. Which to me says a whole lot about the author's skill.
Now, most of you won't want to be spoiled in case you're going to read it, of course (I think saying that there is a death scene isn't much of a spoiler, because these kinds of books nearly always have one). But for those of you who don't mind, or who have read it already, I present a lengthy quote behind the cut.
A curlew's note broke the silence, wild, mournful, unearthly. Meg
shivered, and sat up straight. Judy's brow, grew damp, her eyes
dilated, her lips trembled.
"Meg!" she said, in a whisper that cut the air. "Oh, Meg, I'm
frightened! MEG, I'm so frightened!"
"God!" said Meg's heart.
"Meg, say something. Meg, help me! Look at the dark, Meg. MEG,
I can't die! Oh, why don't they be quick?"
Nellie flew to the fence again; then to say, "Make her better,
God--oh, please, God!"
"Meg, I can't think of anything to say. Can't you say something,
Meg? Aren't there any prayers about the dying in the Prayer Book?--
I forget. Say something, Meg!"
Meg's lips moved, but her tongue uttered no word.
"Meg, I'm so frightened! I can't think of anything but `For what
we are about to receive,' and that's grace, isn't it? And there's
nothing in Our Father that would do either. Meg, I wish we'd gone
to Sunday-school and learnt things. Look at the dark, Meg! Oh, Meg,
hold my hands!"
"Heaven won't--be--dark," Meg's lips said. Even when speech came,
it was only a halting, stereotyped phrase that fell from them.
"If it's all gold and diamonds, I don't want to go!" The child was
crying now. "Oh, Meg, I want to be alive! How'd you like to die,
Meg, when you're only thirteen? Think how lonely I'll be without
you all. Oh, Meg! Oh, Pip, Pip! Oh, Baby! Nell!"
The tears streamed down her cheeks; her chest rose and fell.
"Oh, say something, Meg!--hymns!--anything!"
Half the book of "Hymns Ancient and Modern" danced across Meg's brain.
Which one could she think of that would bring quiet into those
feverish eyes that were fastened on her face with such a frightening,
imploring look?
Then she opened her lips:
"Come unto Me, ye weary,
And I will give you rest,
Oh, bl---
"I'm not weary, I don't WANT to rest," Judy said, in a fretful tone.
Again Meg tried:
"My God, my Father, while I stray
Far from my home on life's rough way,
Oh, teach me from my heart to say
Thy will be done!"
"That's for old people," said the little tired voice. He won't expect
ME to say it."
Then Meg remembered the most beautiful hymn in the world, and said
the first and last verses without a break in her voice:
"Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!
Hold Thou Thy Cross before my closing eyes,
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!
"Oh! and Judy, dear, we are forgetting; there's Mother, Judy, dear--
you won't be lonely! Can't you remember Mother's eyes, little Judy?"
Judy grew quiet, and still more quiet. She shut her eyes so she
could not see the gathering shadows. Meg's arms were round her,
Meg's cheek was on her brow, Nell was holding her hands, Baby her
feet, Bunty's lips were on her hair. Like that they went with her
right to the Great Valley, where there are no lights even for stumbling,
childish feet.
The shadows were cold, and smote upon their hearts; they could
feel the wind from the strange waters on their brows; but only
she who was about to cross heard the low lapping of the waves.
Just as her feet touched the water there was a figure in the doorway.
"Judy!" said a wild voice; and Pip brushed them aside and fell
down beside her.
"Judy, Judy, JUDY!
The light flickered back in her eyes. She kissed him with pale lips
once, twice; she gave him both her hands, and her last smile.
Then the wind blew over them all, and, with a little shudder, she
slipped away.
What I particularly love about this is that Judy is the spunky tomboy of the piece, the girl you (meaning me) love and admire, and yet in this situation she's not brave or patient or any of those things dying children in old books often are - she's scared to death, just like any 13-year-old would be in that situation. (And in case you're wondering - yup, I'm crying as I write this.)
Obviously, the text can't have the same effect on someone who hasn't read the whole thing, and possibly not even on someone who isn't as sentimental when it comes to hymns as I am, but I hope it can be an incentive to (re)read the book.
There's more to it than just the death scene, of course - lots more. The kids are the kind of sometimes ill-behaved but usually good-hearted children you tend to see in the more readable of old books, and they're described with heart but without (much) sentimentality. The older sister's teen vanities are dealt with in a funny but compassionate way, and I love the description of the young stepmother's problems.
And I don't know about you, but I simply cannot resist a book that starts with these words:
Before you fairly start this story I should like to give you just a
word of warning.
If you imagine you are going to read of model children, with
perhaps; a naughtily inclined one to point a moral, you had better lay
down the book immediately and betake yourself to 'Sandford and Merton'
or similar standard juvenile works. Not one of the seven is really
good, for the very excellent reason that Australian children never are.
In England, and America, and Africa, and Asia, the little folks may
be paragons of virtue, I know little about them.
But in Australia a model child is--I say it not without
thankfulness--an unknown quantity.
This post was brought to you by the pimping of a hopelessly nostalgic children's librarian. Still a good book. :-)
Anyway, the original is available at Project Gutenberg and should be available at any good library as well.
A couple of years ago, I found that I could start crying just by opening the book at a certain death scene. Now, I found something else - I can start crying just by thinking about that death scene, if I'm in a melancholy mood. Which to me says a whole lot about the author's skill.
Now, most of you won't want to be spoiled in case you're going to read it, of course (I think saying that there is a death scene isn't much of a spoiler, because these kinds of books nearly always have one). But for those of you who don't mind, or who have read it already, I present a lengthy quote behind the cut.
A curlew's note broke the silence, wild, mournful, unearthly. Meg
shivered, and sat up straight. Judy's brow, grew damp, her eyes
dilated, her lips trembled.
"Meg!" she said, in a whisper that cut the air. "Oh, Meg, I'm
frightened! MEG, I'm so frightened!"
"God!" said Meg's heart.
"Meg, say something. Meg, help me! Look at the dark, Meg. MEG,
I can't die! Oh, why don't they be quick?"
Nellie flew to the fence again; then to say, "Make her better,
God--oh, please, God!"
"Meg, I can't think of anything to say. Can't you say something,
Meg? Aren't there any prayers about the dying in the Prayer Book?--
I forget. Say something, Meg!"
Meg's lips moved, but her tongue uttered no word.
"Meg, I'm so frightened! I can't think of anything but `For what
we are about to receive,' and that's grace, isn't it? And there's
nothing in Our Father that would do either. Meg, I wish we'd gone
to Sunday-school and learnt things. Look at the dark, Meg! Oh, Meg,
hold my hands!"
"Heaven won't--be--dark," Meg's lips said. Even when speech came,
it was only a halting, stereotyped phrase that fell from them.
"If it's all gold and diamonds, I don't want to go!" The child was
crying now. "Oh, Meg, I want to be alive! How'd you like to die,
Meg, when you're only thirteen? Think how lonely I'll be without
you all. Oh, Meg! Oh, Pip, Pip! Oh, Baby! Nell!"
The tears streamed down her cheeks; her chest rose and fell.
"Oh, say something, Meg!--hymns!--anything!"
Half the book of "Hymns Ancient and Modern" danced across Meg's brain.
Which one could she think of that would bring quiet into those
feverish eyes that were fastened on her face with such a frightening,
imploring look?
Then she opened her lips:
"Come unto Me, ye weary,
And I will give you rest,
Oh, bl---
"I'm not weary, I don't WANT to rest," Judy said, in a fretful tone.
Again Meg tried:
"My God, my Father, while I stray
Far from my home on life's rough way,
Oh, teach me from my heart to say
Thy will be done!"
"That's for old people," said the little tired voice. He won't expect
ME to say it."
Then Meg remembered the most beautiful hymn in the world, and said
the first and last verses without a break in her voice:
"Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me!
Hold Thou Thy Cross before my closing eyes,
Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies.
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!
"Oh! and Judy, dear, we are forgetting; there's Mother, Judy, dear--
you won't be lonely! Can't you remember Mother's eyes, little Judy?"
Judy grew quiet, and still more quiet. She shut her eyes so she
could not see the gathering shadows. Meg's arms were round her,
Meg's cheek was on her brow, Nell was holding her hands, Baby her
feet, Bunty's lips were on her hair. Like that they went with her
right to the Great Valley, where there are no lights even for stumbling,
childish feet.
The shadows were cold, and smote upon their hearts; they could
feel the wind from the strange waters on their brows; but only
she who was about to cross heard the low lapping of the waves.
Just as her feet touched the water there was a figure in the doorway.
"Judy!" said a wild voice; and Pip brushed them aside and fell
down beside her.
"Judy, Judy, JUDY!
The light flickered back in her eyes. She kissed him with pale lips
once, twice; she gave him both her hands, and her last smile.
Then the wind blew over them all, and, with a little shudder, she
slipped away.
What I particularly love about this is that Judy is the spunky tomboy of the piece, the girl you (meaning me) love and admire, and yet in this situation she's not brave or patient or any of those things dying children in old books often are - she's scared to death, just like any 13-year-old would be in that situation. (And in case you're wondering - yup, I'm crying as I write this.)
Obviously, the text can't have the same effect on someone who hasn't read the whole thing, and possibly not even on someone who isn't as sentimental when it comes to hymns as I am, but I hope it can be an incentive to (re)read the book.
There's more to it than just the death scene, of course - lots more. The kids are the kind of sometimes ill-behaved but usually good-hearted children you tend to see in the more readable of old books, and they're described with heart but without (much) sentimentality. The older sister's teen vanities are dealt with in a funny but compassionate way, and I love the description of the young stepmother's problems.
And I don't know about you, but I simply cannot resist a book that starts with these words:
Before you fairly start this story I should like to give you just a
word of warning.
If you imagine you are going to read of model children, with
perhaps; a naughtily inclined one to point a moral, you had better lay
down the book immediately and betake yourself to 'Sandford and Merton'
or similar standard juvenile works. Not one of the seven is really
good, for the very excellent reason that Australian children never are.
In England, and America, and Africa, and Asia, the little folks may
be paragons of virtue, I know little about them.
But in Australia a model child is--I say it not without
thankfulness--an unknown quantity.
This post was brought to you by the pimping of a hopelessly nostalgic children's librarian. Still a good book. :-)